Bloodlines
by Psyke-Ward
Summary: Damon and Elena's feelings on eachother, while a homicidal vampire hunts to kill.
1. Ashes and Wine

_Don't know what to do anymore_

_I've lost the only love worth fighting for_

_And I'll drown in my tears, don't they see?_

_And that would show you, that would make you hurt like me_

Damon walked sullenly out of the house, bottle in hand, tears fighting their way to the surface. But he was Damon Salvatore-Damon Salvatore didn't cry. At least, that used to be true. Until today, when he'd been so stupid as to tell Elena he loved her. True, she didn't remember anything about it, but it still stung, nonetheless, to hear her say that "It's always Stefan." It was the same thing Katherine had said. The bitch. He'd promised himself he'd stop caring, but here it was, the damn stake in his heart, this time with the name Elena Gilbert etched into the handle.

Sighing, he walked up the stairs of the Salvatore mansion, his feet dragging. When he got to his room, rage enveloped him. Why did he have to feel? Why did every woman he ever fell for turn him down for his goody-two-shoes brother? Grabbing for the closest thing he could reach—it happened to be a lamp—he slung it against the nearest wall, reveling in the magnified sound of the crash. His pulse jumped slightly, feeling elated. Destruction was good. Breaking things would release him from the pain he was feeling right now. And that was the only thing he needed at the moment.

Next he grabbed a desk, throwing it against the wall as well and smirking evilly as it shattered. He could feel the veins around his eyes wanting to shrink, the blood in them wanting to flee to his eyes and enhance his vision more. He swallowed and concentrated on his bloodflow, making them stay normal. The last thing he needed was to be hungry on top of the rage. _Now, where was I?_ he thought. _Oh, yeah._ His lips slowly curled into an evil grin as he grabbed a bookshelf, tilting it over and laughing when the books flopped onto the floor. He'd slammed it in a way that they wouldn't be damaged, but it still made him yearn for more.

This time when the veins around his eyes grew tight, he let them, seeing the night light outside like he would in daytime. Everything was so bright, everything so loud, so… exhilerating. Chuckles escaped his throat, and as he grabbed a fragment of wood from the shattered desk, preparing to shatter the window, he faltered, swallowing. His heart was constricting, sorrow overflowing his body, sinking him to his knees. The veins around his eyes filled with blood again, his vision dimming, but still better than a humans. He could feel his throat wanting to close up, feel his eyes threatening to overflow with tears.

"Damn," he whispered, swallowing again.

_All the same I don't want mudslinging games_

_It's just a shame to let you walk away_

_Is there a chance, a fragment of light_

_At the end of the tunnel, a reason to fight?_

_Is there a chance you may change your mind_

_Or are we ashes and wine?_

"Damn, damn, damn damn DAMN!" Ah, there was the rage again. Immediately, he was on his feet again, slamming things against the wall, not caring what they were. This wasn't the first time he'd destroyed his room in a fit of rage. Cleanup was easy, simple. But he was running out of things to mangle, except… There were wood shards everywhere, and he had his flesh… He wouldn't hit his heart, of course, but maybe the physical pain would take his mind off the emotional pain he was feeling, that was making him like this. Almost without thinking, he grabbed one, let it hover above his flesh for an instant, then slammed it in, crying out in pain.

Elena was confused. Sitting on her bed, she fiddled with her necklace, the one that had mysteriously reappeared tonight, after disappearing. The same thought kept ringing in her ears: "_Get to Damon, get to Damon._" The urge was almost too strong to resist, and something told her that if she didn't get to the Salvatore mansion soon, Damon might end up killing someone, even himself, and God knew she didn't want that to happen. Grabbing her purse, she pulled on a pair of shorts, her jacket, and slipped on her shoes. Digging for her keys, she got in her car, sticking them in the ignition and driving off without a second thought.

When she arrived, there was only one light on, the one in Damon's room. Something liquid was dripping down the panes, maybe liquor, and this made her get out of the car faster, slamming the door and running up the front door, not bothering to knock. It was locked, of course, but she had a key, and she was grateful for it at the moment. Running inside, she left the door open, dashing up the staircase, though it left her breathless. She just knew she had to get up there, see what was going on, go go go GO.

Finally, she skidded to a halt in front of Damon's room, jiggling the door handle. Locked. Damn, she thought, how to get in? Gritting her teeth, she braced her leg muscles, catapaulting her leg forward, kicking the door. It started to give, and she clenched her jaw, ignoring the pain. Another kick should do it, she was thinking, and lashed out again, breathing in relief when the door swung open and her foot didn't break. She limped inside, seeing no one there. Nevertheless, she stayed in front of the door, closing it behind her. Her eyes had tightened around the edges when she saw the carnage, and she knew her instincts had been right in coming.

She was about to call his name when a viselike grip enclosed her throat. "What're you doing here, Elena?" She gasped at the menace in Damon's voice, quivering slightly at the veins starting to darken around his eyes. His eyes were squinting in anger, and his fangs were bared in a snarl. He wasn't Damon right now. He was a monster, an unfeeling monster. Not showing her fear, she looked straight into his eyes.

"I'd tell you if I could breathe," she managed to gasp out, and he let her go, keeping his close proximity. "I had to see if you were okay."

He laughed slightly, but it was empty of emotion. "To see if I was okay?" He didn't say it like a question, but like a statement. His voice was blunt, unforgiving, devoid of feeling. "Tell me this, Elena: Since when have you cared?" He was breathing shakily, she noticed, like he was in pain but was trying to hide it.

"You're my friend, Damon. Of course I care. Now tell me; where are you hurt?"

She saw a quick flash of surprise, and it passed just as fast, but she knew it'd been there. "I'm not in pain." She saw his jaw clench for an instant, then relax, a glassy film of deception sliding over his ice-blue eyes. She rolled her eyes, pointing to the bed. He ignored her, staying planted where he was. Looking away from his face, she examined him for injuries, sensing him tense. Blood was covering his shirt—fresh blood, it looked like, and there was a slight area where he hadn't healed yet. But why would an attacker go for his abdomen instead of his heart? Unless there wasn't an attacker. Her eyes flashed back up to his eyes, and his head was hung low. She couldn't see his face, what he was thinking. She reached out a hand, tilting his chin up.

What she saw shattered her heart. Damon's eyes were brimming with tears, and they were wide and innocent-looking, not the cold calculating eyes she'd always seen. Her hand moved from his chin to his cheek, wiping away stray tears that had fallen. She felt absolutely terrible, seeing him like this. "Damon," she whispered, "Damon, what's wrong?"

His jaw clenched, and she could tell he was trying to pull himself together. After a few seconds, though, his jaw unclenched, and he let out a sob, falling to his knees. She followed him to the floor, pulling him into her arms. He sat there, limp, silent sobs shaking his frame. Her eyes were wide, her mind trying to figure out what would make Damon like this, how anyone could hurt him this badly. Her first thought was Katherine. But the thought flew away as soon as it came. Never once had she seen him cry over Katherine. Never.

Come to think of it, she'd never seen him cry once.

And it scared her more than anything she'd ever encountered.

_Don't know if our fate's already sealed_

_These days are spinning circus on a wheel_

_And I'm ill with the thought of your kiss_

_Coffee laced intoxicating on her lips_

_Shut it out, I've got no claim on you now_

_Not allowed to wear your freedom down, no_

Damon couldn't believe how he was falling apart in front of her. _Pull yourself together_, he told himself, breathing deeply, regaining his composure. At least, he regained a fraction of his composure. Tears were still streaming down his face, never stopping, never halting in their flow. He hated each and every one of them, hated how she was holding him, trying to console him. For a second he was angry, so angry all he could see was her throat, and think of how it would feel if he ripped it out. The thoughts faded, though, because, let's be honest, he thought, you could never hurt her like that.

"How can I help, Damon?" she said, and he took a deep breath, mumbling. "Sorry?"

"Stay here. P—please. I can't stay here alone."

"Damon, if you're asking for my company, then you know the—"

"It's not that, Elena. You don't have to do anything except stay here. Hell, you don't even have to do that," he laughed, but there was on desolation behind it. "But if you would stay, just to let me know I'm not alone, for that I'd be very grateful."

Her arms relaxed, pulling him in closer. "Of course, Damon. I just need to call Aunt Jenna and let her know. Come on downstairs," she said, tugging him upward. He kept his eyes on the floor, not daring to look at her, lest he break down again. She wasn't taking him downstairs yet, but rummaging in his drawers, muttering to herself. After thirty seconds, she came back to him, lifting his head up, tapping his shoulder. "Shirt off," she said, and he obeyed, flinging it across the destroyed room. She sank into a crouch, examining his stomach, probing for injuries. When he winced and flinched, she pulled some tweezers off the floor, sinking them into his flesh and pulling out an inch-long sliver of wood. Immediately the wound sealed up, and he breathed in relief, feeling the last remnants of pain leave his body.

He was relaxed until something wet and cold pressed against his muscles, which locked up immedately. He winced again, feeling the soreness of the five or so stakings he'd inflicted on himself. She pushed his shoulder down, laying him on the only piece of furniture that wasn't destroyed, which was the bed. She wiped the wet rag across his abdomen, and after the intital shock, his muscles relaxed, the sorness fading. "You've done this before, haven't you?" he mumbled, sinking into the bed. He was almost sad when she stopped. Sitting up, he caught the shirt she tossed to him, shrugging it on and sighing, feeling his composure finally slip into place.

"Yeah. For Stefan." Damon nodded, going over to her and picking her up so quickly she didn't have time to do anything except gasp. He flitted downstairs, laying her gently on the couch, pouring himself a scotch and downing it in one go. The burn in his throat helped him feel normal again.

He turned to her slowly, eyes slightly downcast. "Thank you, Elena."

She seemed shocked that he'd said so. "You're welcome," she said, sincerely. He sank into the couch beside her, closing his eyes slowly and just starting to fade when he felt something against his cheek—Elena's lips. It was just a peck, but it made him smile. He was caught off guard when those same lips pressed agains his own, probing, waiting for a reaction. He turned in his seat, sliding his hands slowly up her arms and to her neck, holding it gently. Her own arms were holding his body close, hands in the crooks of his shoulderblades. She seemed to come back to her senses afterward, and he let go of her, feeling reluctant but making his hands release instantaneously.

She swallowed, then smiled uneasily.


	2. Back Against The Wall

_Tonight I'll have a look and try to find my face again_

_Buried beneath this house my spirit screams and dies again_

_Outback a monster wears a coat of Persian leather_

_Behind the TV screen I've fallen to my knees_

_I said you got my where you want me again and I can't turn away_

_I'm hangin' by a thread and I'm feeling' like a fool_

_I'm stuck here in between the shadows of my yesterday_

_I wanna get away, I need to get away_

Damon's breathing hitched as Elena leaned forward again, lips pressed against his in need. He pulled back slightly, making her face fall in disppointment. "W-what about Stefan?" he asked, his breathing levelling out. He was so close to falling over the edge again, and he definitely didn't like falling into a dark abyss, like he had before. Hopefully Elena wouldn't bring that up. He brought up his composure like a brick wall between them, sealing off his soul again, making a flash of rage go through her eyes.

"What about Stefan?" she asked, running her index finger down his chest, making him shudder in desire. She smiled when she saw the reluctance leave his eyes, the acceptance replacing it. He smirked, then flipped her over, baring his fangs and letting the blood drain out of the veins around his eyes. He snarled, and her desire faded, replaced by fear.

"What the hell, Katherine?" he snarled, pressing her deeper into the couch cushions. "I know it's you, so stop playing around with me!" What'd this bitch want? To mess with his mind some more? She'd seen him vulnerable before, she'd taken care of him, and for what? To torment him with her lies?

"Ow—Damon, it's Elena, it's not Katherine! Please, Damon, you're hurting me," she whispered, tears starting to flow down her cheeks. Almost immediately, his heart tore in two, the veins refilling and his vision dimming again. Maybe he'd already fallen again and he just hadn't noticed it. He breathed out shakily, releasing her and collapsing on the couch arm, hand over his eyes, fingers rubbing his temples. She sat up slowly, reaching over to him, grabbing his hand and making him look at her. He didn't resist. He'd do anything for her. "Damon, it's okay. Stefan doesn't have to know. Tonight it's about you—whatever you want."

Slowly he leaned forward, grabbing her behind the neck and pulling her close, tucking her head into his neck. His arms were tight around her, and he was almost startled at how good hugging somebody felt. He hadn't embraced anybody since—well, since Katherine. He whispered in her ear "Don't do something you'll regret later. No regrets if you go through with this. Promise me."

"I promise," she said, without hesitating. Her arms slowly unwound from his body, sliding up to his face, looking him in the eye. "Tell me if I'm hurting you."

"Hurt me? Darling, I'm a vampire."

"You know that's not what I mean." He did. Suddenly serious, he nodded, waiting for her to make the first move. She slowly leaned forward, pressing her lips against his again and moving slowly, sliding her hands down to the hem of his shirt. She slid it up over his head slowly, breaking the kiss for only an instant before she came back, sliding off her jacket and shivering. Damon realized that the front door was still open, and he flitted away, closing and locking it, then coming back, all within the time it took for her to realize he was gone. Their lips smashed together greedily, sparks running through Damon, like he'd stuck his finger in a light socket. Her breathing was accelerating as she slid off her tank top, laying him down slowly and straddling him, never once breaking contact of their lips. He opened his eyes, breaking the kiss, and she sighed.

"You're sure about this?" he asked, slightly breathless.

"Yes, Damon," she said, smiling slightly above him. He could feel her hair tickling his bare shoulders, and he shuddered.

"Don't do this because you feel sorry for me."

"I'm not."

He breathed deeply, rolling her over and sitting on top of her, kissing her breathless.

When Elena woke up the next morning, she smiled, rolling over and slinging an arm around—air. Where was Damon? And how did she get into his bedroom? And how the hell was his bedroom clean, after all that wreckage it had experienced the night before? She groaned, sitting up and feeling fabric shift around her. How the fuck had she gotten dressed? Damon, her mind said to her, and she smiled, getting out of bed and walking downstairs, smelling the whiskey before she even reached the bottom step. But there was more than the whiskey smell—there was also… Pancakes? Maple syrup? Why were those smells in the house, when the inhabitants didn't even eat?

She rounded the corner, stepping into the kitchen and almost laughing when she saw Damon flipping a pancake like he'd been doing it forever. There were already about four on a plate, and this appeared to be the last one, and the others were covered in powdered sugar, maple syrup, strawberries, and whipped cream. Her stomach growled, and he turned around, catching the pancake even though it was out of his range of sight. He kept flipping it, catching it every time, showing off. There was also ham with maple syrup off to the side, and orange juice, and basically any breakfast material she could think of. "My God Damon, is the entire army coming over?" Because surely this wasn't for her.

"This's for you and Ric. He usually comes and raids our fridge in the morning, so I figured why not?"

"I didn't know you could cook," she said, smiling, accepting the seat he pulled out for her.

"Since the 1890's, darling," he said, smiling, mixing up what seemed like pancake batter expertly, with one hand, never once disturbing the bowl. She widened her eyes.

"Impressive," she said, yawning and rubbing her eyes. "You should teach me how to do that someday."

"Sure."

"So… About last night…"

He sighed, setting down the spoon. "Please don't tell me you regret it," he said. "Just don't." His back was turned to her, and she got up, walking over to him and resting her chin on his broad shoulder, one hand around his waist and the other between his shoulderblades.

"I was going to say I enjoyed it," she said, sincerely. He looked at her, surprised, his ice blue eyes widening and making her giggle. "What, you expected me to be a bitch about it? Now, Mr. Salvatore," she said, turning him around, "I think you'd know me better than that."

"Let's stick with Damon, shall we?" he said, smiling, not returning the affection. "By the way," he said, whispering, "Ric's car just pulled up, so you might want to let go." She did, albeit relucantly, sitting in her chair and smiling broadly. The front door opened, and Ric walked in, his boots sounding throughout the entire house.

"What smells like pancakes?" he asked, walking into the kitchen. "Oh. That's what smells like pancakes."

"Good morning, Alaric," Elena said, already loading her plate. "Help yourself." Damon had disappeared as soon as the door had opened, and now he walked in the kitchen, wrinkling his nose at Ric, carrying a glass of scotch in his hand, twirling the amber liquid. His signature eye tricks followed.

"Hello, Ric," he said, downing the glass. "Here to raid the house again? Maybe I should get a restraining order." Alaric rolled his eyes, grabbing a fork and stabbing it into his pancakes, like he wished it was Damon. Elena giggled, having to hold in her mouthful of orange juice that she'd just taken. It was amazing how open Damon was with her, and how concealed and cut off he was with everyone else. It almost scared her. But then she remembered that no one else knew about his breakdown last night, or what had followed after. She didn't regret it—she'd been telling the truth to him. No more lies. She'd lied to him one too many times. But did she love him? The answer to that was no. And he understood that, she felt.

It was still Stefan, and she knew he'd understand. Hell, he was the one that had told her to do it. Not that she followed him blindly, and it wasn't that she wanted to cheat on him, but he said that as long as she loved him, she could do whatever she wanted with anyone, because he realized she couldn't be satisfied by him alone. God, she loved him so much. Shoving these mushy thoughts away, she went to her now-mushy pancakes, eating the rest and leaning back.

Best. Breakfast. Ever.

Damon flitted up the stairs, closing his door and leaning against it. Sliding down, he put his elbows on his knees, his head on his right hand, swirling his bottle of vodka around. Taking a deep—and sometimes unnecessary—breath, he closed his eyes, trying not to think about her. He failed, and thoughts of her flashed through his mind anyway. Her skin, her eyes, her beautiful hair… "Katherine," he whispered, and flinched. He was thinking about Elena. Why would he say Katherine's cursed name? That backstabbing bitch had done nothing but hurt him, physically and emotionally. Standing, he felt his rage again, the need to destroy things. His eyes were sharpening, and the bright light outside was blinding. Focusing on his bloodflow, he imagined it slowing gradually, then stopping altogether. His heart beat dully once before it halted its beating. Opening his searing eyes, he blinked, readjusting to the morning light filtering in through the curtains. He went over and pulled the black-out curtains shut, plunging his room into darkness.

A knock on his door was heard, and he went over, seeing Elena at the door. She was raising her hand to knock again, and was looking out of place among the ancient relics in the mansion. "Why hello Elena," he said, smirking and widening his eyes, lowering them to normal capacity a second after. That was what she called his "eye tricks" and he was remembered by them, was also prided by them. The first thing girls noticed were his eyes. Whereas the first thing girls noticed with Stefan was his broodiness and his "need for help".

Damon mentally rolled his eyes, inviting her in. "How did your room get to clean so fast?" she asked quietly, like she didn't want him to hear. He did anyway, though, his hearing enhanced now that he didn't have to hear his heartbeat at the forefront of his mind all the time. The heartbeat was actually a charade, to make humans more trustworthy. It was actually unnecessary, as was breathing. Except, when they were blending in with humans, they had to have their hearts beating, had to have air. The only way they'd be able to tell they were vampires were if they caught them flitting or drinking blood, which was alright by him.

"Vampires don't need sleep," he said, swirling the liquid in his glass again and drinking it in one swig, setting down his glass and flitting over to Elena, and taking her in his arms. She gasped, then giggled, stroking his chest in a devilish way. "I was cleaning last night while you were in Dreamland."

"Well, Mr. Salvatore," she said, grinning, then cut off when her phone rang. "Excuse me." She dettached herself from him, then walked over to the doorway, hand over her other ear. Damon turned around, ready to take a swig of vodka, when out of nowhere, a vampire was in front of him, driving a stake through his heart. He gasped, unable to move, feeling the worst pain he'd ever felt in his long, long life. He knew it was in his heart—he could feel his skin shriveling, could feel himself fading.

But, wait—Elena was there, pulling the stake out, allowing him to breathe again. Coughing, he felt his skin to back to normal, could feel the wound sealing up. He was gasping, shaking, coughing, sweating. His throat was constricting, and he couldn't get enough air… _Stop beating, _he willed his heart, and it responded, thudding dully before stopping. Now that he didn't need air, he sat up, recovering and probing his chest. Apparently the vampire had horrible aim or very bad knowledge of anatomy, because the stake had missed. It was almost a whole two centimeteres away from his heart, and that was a long distance if you were aiming to kill. He looked at Elena, who was holding his wrist in confusion, most likely looking for a pulse.

"We can shut off our hearts," he explained, drawing in unnecessary air to speak. "That is, if we've had enough blood. Otherwise they're not beating, whether we want them to or not." Closing his eyes, he concentrated, trying to get his heart to beat. It didn't respond, staying still in his chest. "Like right now, I need blood." He stood shakily, feeling his limbs weak and clumsy from the blood loss and vervaine—wait. Vervaine? He hadn't been injected with vervaine recently, unless… The stake was dipped in it before he was stabbed. "We need to get to your house. Fast." Because that vampire was likely to come back, since he'd had a failsafe. Vervaine would make Damon weaker, not as fast, not as ready to fight back. It must've been a lot of vervaine, too, because it'd taken an entire syringe when he'd been taken hostage by werewolves.

"Blood first or car first?" Elena said, and he held up two fingers, finding himself getting woozy, unable to speak. He picked Elena up—she'd gotten very heavy suddenly—and flitted downstairs, out the door, and into the car, with the girl still on his lap. She crawled off, finding her keys in her purse; he'd been smart enough to put it in the car last night, in case something like this happened.

"Call Alaric," he whispered, closing the door and fading…

When he woke up, he was on Elena's couch, glass of scotch next to his head and bag of blood following suit. Downing the scotch, he ripped open the bag, feeling ravenous, and downed it, wishing for another when Jeremy walked downstairs, tossing it to him. "Thanks," he said, before ripping it open and drinking it without breath. "Do you guys stock up or…?"

"Yeah," Jeremy said, gesturing to a deep freeze Damon hadn't noticed before. Though, admittedly, the cold blood he'd received tasted horrible, it was better than nothing. Swallowing, he tried to stand, swaying and landing right back where he had been. Immediately, Jeremy called up the stairs for Elena, who came crashing down, nearly tripping a few times. Alaric was coming out of the kitchen—he'd been hiding behind the counter, probably raiding the fridge—and all of them looked worried. But what surprised him most was when there was a slight gust of wind and Stefan was there, brows furrowed as usual and looking sober.

Damon tried to focus on any of them, but he couldn't. His vision was too dim, too blurred, too faulty. There was a horrible taste in his mouth, like rust turned to liquid form. His abdomen felt empty, like blood hunger but very mild, easy to ignore. Finally his vision settled, and he looked at Stefan, clenching his jaw at the sense of danger that suddenly enveloped him. "There's someone here," he said, standing again and managing to stay on his feet. Stefan shoved him down, too fast to see, which amazed Damon. He landed with a thump, and he snarled, willing the veins around his eyes to shrink and his vision to enhance. It didn't happen, and he probed his teeth, feeling them dull and useless.

"Something's wrong," he said, but it sounded like a mumble. His eyes wanted to fall shut, but he didn't let them, forcing them open.

"I'll take him to my room," Elena said, and Stefan looked at her, almost seeming to say "Are you sure?" She nodded, and Stefan picked Damon up, bridal style, flitting up the stairs and making Damon feel sick. Next thing he knew, Stefan was gone, Elena by his side. She was looking deep into his eyes, leaning over him. He noticed her necklace was gone. "Try to compel me."

"What?"

"Do it, Damon."

He probed for her mind, feeling… Nothing. The only thoughts he could feel were his own. He tried harder. Still nothing. "I can't," he admitted, sagging in defeat. He'd come to the same conclusion he thought she had.

"You're human."

Yep. Same conclusion.

"It might only be temporary, made to keep you weak. Whoever did this wants you dead, Damon," Stefan said, and Damon rolled his eyes, picking at his salad that he'd prepared. He didn't like eating; it wasn't a reflex he'd had in over a hundred years. It was like asking a human to drink blood like a vampire. "Do you feel any stronger than you did earlier?"

"Yeah. But whoever did this is gonna get their heart ripped out," he said, smirking to himself and taking a bite. It tasted strange; ranch dressing definitely wasn't his favorite. The lettuce was okay, as was the tomato, but the ranch made it taste… Fake. "I can't eat this," he said, scowling and standing, pacing around the Gilberts' living room. He focused slowly on his pulse, which he could keep track of again, and imagined it slowing. Instead of the gradual feeling of release, his chest tightened, and he gasped.

Stefan stood next to him, slamming him against the wall gently—well, gently enough as to not damage the wall, but it wasn't so gentle on his body—and getting in his face. "Stop trying to stop your heart," he snarled, releasing him. Damon, instead of landing on his feet, fell to the floor, his head aching. His vision was slightly blurry, but settling again. "Eat the salad. You need sustenance."

"Ooh. Big words. Thanks for the concussion, by the way," he said, standing and pacing again, probing for vulnerable minds. There weren't any—everyone here was protected against compulsion, which sucked for him, because he wanted to see if he got that ability back as well. He took a deep breath, running a hand through his hair and imagining the blood around his eyes fleeing to his retinas, enhancing his vision. It worked, but instead of everything being bright it just looked normal—well, vampire normal, anyway. After a minute his eyes started hurting, and he let the blood recede, sighing at the blurry, incomplete vision humans had.

"I see you're hungry," Stefan said, gesturing to the salad. "And don't lie about it, either; your eyes tell a different story."

"I can do that at will," Damon said, seeming to surprise Stefan.

"Prove it."

Damon focused, making the blood rush up even though it hurt. After thirty seconds he let it go, staggering a little. God, humans were so weak. "Ow," he said, rubbing his eyes and his temples, which were throbbing. He stumbled to the couch, closing his eyes and scrunching up his forehead. Soon, he felt his mind wandering, falling into sleep.

He welcomed it with open arms.


End file.
